


Dream a Little Dream

by orangecrushcrushcrush



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangecrushcrushcrush/pseuds/orangecrushcrushcrush
Summary: Lucid dreaming has never really been your thing, but on the rare occasions that it does happen, the only thing you get out of it is disappointment in your brain's inability to conjure up anything worth experiencing. The scenery is unrealistic, the buildings look wrong, the people don't behave at all like they're supposed to, and this time is no exception.But it'syourdream, so you might as well try to enjoy it.---This is another oneshot collection of reader x champions! Each chapter is stand-alone, and is not related to the other oneshots.
Relationships: Khada Jhin/Reader, Yorick Mori/Reader
Comments: 76
Kudos: 128





	1. Prologue

Lucid dreaming has never really been your thing, but on the rare occasions that it does happen, the only thing you get out of it is disappointment in your brain's inability to conjure up anything worth experiencing. The scenery is unrealistic, the buildings look wrong, the people don't behave at all like they're supposed to, and this time is no exception. 

  
But it's _your_ dream, so you might as well try to enjoy it.

\---

This is a oneshot collection of reader x various champions! This reader is familiar with league lore. :'D


	2. Jhin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trade with @MangakaNekoChan on twitter, who asked for a Jhin fic! Thank you for trading with me! :'D
> 
> I've done three jhin/reader chapters in my other fic and I'm all out of romantic plot, but I hope yall find it entertaining in spite of that and as usual, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> \---
> 
> just a note that this reader is aware of most of jhin's story and the Awaken cinematic!

As far as dreams go, this one isn’t too bad. 

The empty theatre sits still and silent, almost as if it's waiting for you to walk through it, so you do. Your eyes adjust to the pitch-blackness of the wooden interior, the cavernous ceiling stretching up above you, the huge windows along the sides somehow not letting in any light at all, and sure. Normally the sight of all these corpses, slumped over in their seats in a macabre approximation of an actual theatre show, would send you screaming in the opposite direction, but not this time. It’s not like you haven’t already seen the video.

Actually, you’ve maybe seen it one too many times, judging by the stunning clarity of this particular dream, but everyone has their vices, right? You sit yourself down on a wooden bench at the very back, the only one devoid of dead bodies, and wait for the piano music to start. 

It’s just as dramatic as you remember. The moon doesn’t normally make for such an effective spotlight. 

Muted footsteps from outside. You turn to watch the door, and when the guards bust it open and the woman with the steel legs walks inside it takes all your self-control not to clap. The guards rush in, for some reason not immediately opening fire even though he’s _literally sitting there at the piano,_ and trigger the traps he’s so meticulously laid out on the floor. 

After that, the carnage is exactly how you remember it. Explosions. Gunshots. You hold your breath as the woman leaps up and across, aiming her razor-sharp legs at his throat- 

One last shot. An explosion so bright and so loud it sends everyone in the room to their knees, including you. You have to fling your arms over your face to block it out, and when you lift your head you can just make out a shadow slip out the back door. Huh. You don’t remember this part of the video, but if your brain is making things up as it goes, you might as well try your luck and go talk to that tall, elegant lady with the legs. You’ve pushed yourself to your feet, and you’re about to head back through the theatre when you feel it.

A pull. A strong, almost magnetic pull, a rush of air, the horrible feeling like you’re about to get ripped in half, and then-

“My,” he says. “I don’t recall seeing you at the show.”

You stagger to your feet again, dazed, trying to figure out why you’re suddenly out of the theatre and on a grassy road instead, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. 

“I do hate impromptu performances,” he says, and fires just once, and the both of you watch as the bullet phases straight through your chest and lodges itself in the nearest tree. 

\---

“What- I- _what,”_ he says, and you just look at the four new holes in that one unfortunate tree. 

“It’s _my_ dream,” you say, and he just stares at you like you’re insane. A little rude, considering the fact that _you_ weren’t the one who just shot someone. Four times. 

He clutches his head and garbles something frustrated and unintelligible. You turn and walk back to the theatre. 

You get as far as the fork in the road before you feel it. That same nauseating pull, the sensation of being dragged by something you can’t hope to win against, and then-

He stares at you, horrified. You stare back and try not to scream. 

\---

So you're a dream ghost. A dream ghost that's apparently haunting someone, and really if this is _your_ dream you should be able to pick the person you want to haunt, but apparently lucid dreaming has its limits. 

"Stop following me," he snarls. 

"I'm trying," you snap, and he tries valiantly again to send another bullet through you. Well. It does go _through_ you, at least. You have to look on the bright side in times like these. 

\---

By the time you reach the inn he's hiding out at, you're starting to feel the first cold pangs of worry. You should have woken up by now. Your alarm should have gone off. How long could you possibly sleep for? 

He dismantles his weapons, glowering the entire time, intent on ignoring you. You wander around the room and poke your hand through all his belongings, just to see if you can actually touch anything. No. You cannot. You count it as a small miracle you were even able to walk up the stairs instead of phasing straight through them. 

"Must you _touch_ everything," he snaps, and so you slap your hands through every single one of his things until he looks like he might implode from sheer frustration. 

\---

The night passes, and you still don't wake up, and at this point you have to consider if you're in your own special version of hell. 

\---

He heads straight for the next town, resolutely ignoring you. When he slips into another building unnoticed with his gun fully assembled, you turn the corner and look for a guard. 

You get as far as saying _that's right, over there, the golden demon went right down that street and into that shop_ before you get dragged back to him, retreating furiously in the opposite direction of his target. 

He tries with extra fervor this time, but the bullets still go straight through. 

\---

It goes on for days, because the two of you are quite literally inseparable. He tries to live his murderous life, you ruin his plans in a hundred different ways, and he tries to kill you with equally vast and impressive variety. Guns. Knives. Traps. Explosives. One time he just strides right up to a passing monk, still in full murder regalia, grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming at him to _exorcise it, just exorcise it._

You wave. The monk looks like he might pass out. 

\---

By the end of the first week, you still haven't woken up, and you're fully convinced this is purgatory.

You'd think dying and ending up in a video game would be amazing, and sure. The scenery is real, the people are real, this world is real, _everything is real except you._ You can't eat. You can't drink. You're tethered to a psychopath, and you know where that psychopath spends his time? Not in the cities, or in the beautiful rolling hills of the countryside, or anywhere that you actually want to go, no. No. He skulks around abandoned buildings and back alleys like some kind of demented murder raccoon. 

"I wouldn’t be here if not for you," he snarls, and look, it's not your fault he doesn't want to unmask in front of you, okay, even if the first thing you're going to do is describe his face in glorious detail to the nearest patrolman. 

He spends the next three days in the slums out of sheer spite, and you really do have to respect that kind of dedication. 

\---

The week passes. Then two. Then three. Every single attempt to erase you from existence has failed, and you're trying really, really hard to ignore the fact that you really might be stuck like this for the rest of your afterlife. 

Can ghosts have mental breakdowns? Do they still have a mind to break down? This isn’t a train of thought you want to follow. Maybe this really _is_ hell. 

"Kill me," you say, lying on the floor among the knives and shurikens and traps scattered around like so much debris. "C'mon, shoot me, murder me, _end my life."_

"I'm _trying,"_ he snaps, his voice breaking, and oh, that's the sound of a defeated man. He slumps onto the ground, burying his face in his hands, and the two of you sit there in silence for a long, long time. 

\---

Ghosts can't sleep, but what you can do is close your eyes and unfocus. You do it for a long time, but no matter how long you do it for your problems won't go away, and when you open your eyes again your problem is sitting at the rickety wooden table tinkering with something. 

You drag yourself up off the floor and go over, sitting on the chair across to get a closer look, and of course it’s one of his mechanical deathtraps. You poke your finger through the center of its metal blossom. 

“It’s triggered by pressure,” he says, still fiddling with some latch underneath. You watch him fix it, adjusting this or that mechanism in minute detail, and it’s kind of surprising that he’s actually working on something while you’re still here. 

“Either I create art, or I go insane,” he says, even though you can’t even imagine him being even more unhinged than he is already, but you don’t bother saying it. You just sit there in the dark, lonely room and watch him work. 

\---

Despair is a surprisingly commiserative emotion. 

He’s given up trying to murder people for the time being, just as much as you’ve given up trying to snitch on him to anyone in the nearby vicinity. Instead, he works on his traps and his costumes and his instruments of murder, and you watch. For all that the only result is complete annihilation of their targets, his weapons are, at the very least, aesthetically pleasing. 

“I suppose even you can appreciate some form of artistry,” he says, and you try to kick him in the side, but your leg just goes straight through. 

\---

There is nothing to do but watch him, and that alone is not enough to drive boredom from your mind, so you talk. You talk about his murders and his obsession with his art and the people who have tried to kill him, and the people who broke him out of prison, and he looks at you like _you’re_ the psychopath. 

“I told you nothing of that,” he says, just a little hysterically. 

“I read your story,” you say, and he puts down the trap he’s working on and starts asking his own questions. 

\---

He talks, and you talk, and neither of you seems to be able to understand what the other person is saying, but you talk and talk and talk until he literally passes out from exhaustion and you remember that living humans need to sleep. Then he wakes up, checks that you’re still there, and starts all over again. 

When the conversation finally tapers off after three straight days, the both of you are slightly delirious, and also he probably really needs to eat something. Water can only sustain a body for so long. 

He gets up, tossing his murder costume into his bag with sudden and stunning lack of ceremony, and you _stare,_ open-mouthed, when he just takes his mask off and puts it aside. 

“You act like you haven’t already seen my face,” he says, rolling his eyes. 

“I haven’t,” you say, “It was never revealed,” and he slumps back down onto the floor like _he’s_ the one who wants to die. 

\---

At least he stops hanging around the slums. 

No homicide means no snitching, and so whenever he goes into town to get food and supplies and whatever other horrible black-market equipment he needs for his newest murder-toy, you just go along with it. It's nice to see civilization. 

After a while, you fall into the same, if not comfortable, then at least familiar pattern. He spends the days working on his equipment, and going into town, and talking to you, and it’s probably the longest this country has ever gone without a specifically horrifying murder, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t better. It _is_ better. It’s far better than the situation the two of you were in only a few days ago. It doesn’t mean you don’t still desperately want to wake up. 

“If you weren’t a spirit, I’d slit your throat in a second,” he says, hovering his hand over your shoulder in a vague approximation of sympathy, and it’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to you. 

\---

You’re not sure whose decision it really was to go back to the theatre. 

Maybe he suggested it, because he wants to revel in the memory of his most recent performance. Maybe you suggested it, because it’s where you appeared, and maybe if you go there you can find a way back. Either way, the two of you have ended up here, back in the abandoned theatre hall. It’s just as dark, but at least the corpses have been cleared out. 

“A pity,” he says, shaking his head. “True art is never appreciated by the masses.”

If he’s got such a hang-up about it, maybe he should try making art that does appeal to the masses, the kind of art that leaves the masses _still alive,_ but who are you to say that? You’re not the artist. 

“I did try,” he says, walking over to the grand piano, the one object that hasn’t been torn to shreds by bullets and exploding traps. “My dear, I _tried._ They did not appreciate it.”

He sits down and lifts the fallboard, setting his fingers on the keys again, and the music is good. It’s so _good._ Infuriatingly so, because why would someone with that much actual artistic talent decide that the best way to live his life would be to murder everyone else in it? 

“Don’t speak during a performance, darling. It’s poor manners,” he says, and even though he’s being as insufferable as usual, at least now there’s music to accompany it, so you sit beside him on the bench and just listen. If you close your eyes, you can even imagine that he’s not there, and it’s just you and this beautiful, soothing piano music. If only.

He plays the last note, his fingers still on the keys, and even though it kills you inside to do it, you clap. You clap and clap and clap, a one-person standing ovation, because that was literally the best recital you have ever heard, even if it did come from the hands of a homicidal maniac. 

“So _excessive,”_ he says, but he’s smiling, and taking an equally excessive bow, lifting your hand to-

The both of you stare at your hand, the hand that he’s physically holding, and in the silence you can hear the distant voices of the guards. 

He drops your hand and spins around, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything. No costume, no mask, not even the rifle extension of his gun; not nearly enough of his murder toys to take on multiple people- but he doesn’t have to. He can just slip away, exactly the same as last time, you just need him to do one small, simple thing first. 

“Shoot me,” you say, grabbing him by the collar, the collar that you can now apparently touch. How long will this last? Is it the location that caused it? The people? Something else? You don’t know. Hopefully it just lasts long enough for him to shoot you in the face, because there’s no way you’re going back to being a spirit with a murderous ball and chain. 

He freezes, staring, hesitating for just a second, but-

 _“Shoot me and you can go back to murdering people,”_ you say, shaking him, and maybe he didn’t bring his knives, but he brought the main half of his gun, and you _know_ it has four bullets. Outside, the footsteps get louder, drawing closer, and if he’s going to do it it has to be now.

He looks at you for a moment, just a fraction of a second longer, and then he’s stepping back, drawing his gun with the most uselessly dramatic flourish you have ever, ever had the misfortune to see in your life. A bow, a smile, ever the consummate professional, and suddenly he’s swept you up with one arm and pressed the barrel to your chest. 

“Good luck, my darling,” he says, and then you can’t hear anything over the explosion.

\---

The darkness lasts for only a second, and then you open your eyes and scream with relief. 

\---

It takes a little time to convince your neighbors that you have not, in fact, been critically injured, but the ambulance is not called and you are still very much alive and unharmed. 

You go back into your apartment, and you're just slipping into the long lost comfort of _home_ when you feel something lodged in your throat. You cough, and cough, and cough, until you're considering that maybe you did make a mistake and that the ambulance does need to be called after all, but suddenly your throat is clear and you can breathe again-

Something falls, bouncing and rolling across the floor, and you bend down, pick the golden bullet up, and shove it so far into the back of your closet that even the light from your bedroom can't reach it. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;  
> Or close the wall up with our English dead.  
> In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man  
> As modest stillness and humility;  
> But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
> Then imitate the action of the tiger."
> 
> (Henry V, Act-III, Scene-I)
> 
> \---


	3. Yorick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by MirrorDaltokki's writing!! I was never a particular fan of Yorick but he really is under-appreciated omg sjkfghkjdfg SO HERE I AM, DYING ON THIS GRAVEYARD I MEAN HILL

This place is dark, even for a dream. 

The ground you stand on is uneven and cracked with glowing green fissures, and what few buildings you can see in the distance are crumbled and lie in ruin, overrun with the roots of trees that have long since petrified. You look around for plants or animals or any sign of life, but there’s nothing but old, dead things as far as the eye can see. 

The black mist gathers, coiling at your feet, the wind making it almost seem like it’s whispering to you. 

It might actually be whispering to you. 

The fog grows, thickening, and the faint whispers turn into a mournful wailing sound, then into the howling of a maelstrom, making it hard to keep your balance; and all the while the wind makes an unsettling, almost human scream. 

You didn’t take a sleeping pill to fall asleep just to get harassed by dream mist, so you scream back. 

Silence for a second, almost like it’s offended, and then the howling is back stronger than ever, but you’re not about to lose to your own brain. It’s your dream, and you will do what you want, and apparently what you want is to plant your feet and stay right where you are and have a screeching contest with forces of nature; and at this point you have committed, so you might as well keep at it until you win. 

The mist screams. You also scream, and punctuate your screaming with hand gestures that the mist doesn’t seem to appreciate for the insults that they are, but it’s not like it can reciprocate, can it? Clearly someone has the upper hand here, and it sure as hell isn’t some incorporeal ghost vapor--

“Stop screaming,” someone says. No. Absolutely not. 

\---

It takes a little while for your brain to stop focusing on winning your one-sided battle with a non-sentient force of nature and refocus on the fact that there is a giant, grey man standing in front of you, but it’s okay. He seems patient enough. 

He looks at you, considering, and you can’t fully make out his expression under his heavy cowl, but you just won a screaming showdown. You’re pretty sure you can handle a staring contest.

“A spirit?” he says, almost confusedly, and when he shoulders his heavy spade, you suddenly realize where you are and what exactly you’ve been screaming at.

“I know you,” you say, but for some reason he doesn’t seem convinced.

\---

Apparently it’s not uncommon for spirits in the black mist to be familiar with the only living (kind of) human around.

No matter how much you say you know about him (not much), how much you’ve seen of his story (not much), and how much you’ve played his character in-game (not much, and also that just makes him even more confused), he still very clearly believes you’re a spirit. Sure, maybe not a spirit related to the Shadow Isles, but a spirit nonetheless, and no amount of talking and hand-waving will convince him, especially since your hand just waves straight through him when you do it. 

“Leave the isles,” he says, even though he doesn’t stop you from following him back up the dirt road. “There is nothing for you here.”

He is completely wrong. Now that you know where you are, there is _plenty_ for you here. This is a freaking _tourist destination._ He makes an exasperated sound when you take yet another detour to marvel at yet another deteriorated building, but out of curiosity (or more likely, just a lot of free time) he waits for you before continuing his long walk back to the Abbey. 

\---

The monastery itself is just as dilapidated as the rest of the Isles, but at least the main areas are mostly clean. Someone lives here, after all. 

Even though you are for all intents and purposes a ghost, you don’t have the necessary ghostly powers to walk through walls or float, and so it falls to him to begrudgingly be your tour guide, accompanying you down dark hallways and shoving open this or that heavy wooden door using brute strength that you can only dream of having some day. 

You try to make it up to him with what little knowledge you have of his situation, and the mention of the ruined king does bring some interest. It’s too bad you don’t have any other actual information about it. 

“Sorry,” you say, because this is the one time you get to put your pointless trivia knowledge to good use, and this is the one of the few characters you don’t have any trivia for. 

“It is the most useful news I’ve heard in years,” he says, and shoves open another door for you, and as you walk through it, you can hear the incessant ringing of your phone alarm.

\---

You wake up and immediately google every single piece of information you can find about the Shadow Isles, because on the off chance that you’re ever lucky enough to return, you’re going to be an _informed_ tourist.

\---

You _do_ get lucky, about a week later, and this time you don’t even bother screaming at the mist. You just turn and run back up the dirt path. 

You can’t see much of his eyes from under his hood, so you don’t know if he’s surprised to see you, but the first thing you do when you reach the abbey and find him in his room is blabber out every little thing you can remember about the ruined king and his insane quest and the ancient sword/holy water combination that led to this entire country being plunged into black magic for what you can only assume is the rest of time.

He holds up one hand, clearly trying to process an info dump that you could probably have presented better, maybe in a flowchart or powerpoint format, but it’s too late now, and anyway it’s not customary to bring your laptop with you on vacation. You sit awkwardly on the stone bench in the corner and wait. 

“Spirit,” he says, after a silence so long you’ve started to worry that your alarm might sound again, “do you also know how to undo this?” 

“No,” you say, because you don’t, and it wasn’t written in the wiki, and the two of you sit again in silence for a long while. 

“Sorry,” you say again, but he just shakes his head. 

“Tell me again how you come to know these things,” he says, and you talk and talk and talk until the alarm rings.

\---

You spend the entirety of the next week sleeping with your phone clutched in one hand, and when you turn up in the Shadow Isles again, you’re prepared. 

“What language is this?” he says, when you show him the screen, and okay. Maybe you were not _that_ prepared. But it doesn’t mean you stop trying. 

\---

The longer you spend in your strange little dream-venture, the longer you can stay there before you wake up, and he slowly goes from “reticent monk” to “reticent monk slash reluctant tour guide”, but you don’t hear him complaining about it, so it can’t be that bad. Having human company after hundreds of years is nice, right?

“Spirits are not humans,” he says, but he still brings you around the monastery and its surroundings when you ask. 

\---

You always wake up eventually, but literally sleeping your way into the most cursed area of Runeterra is becoming a habit, and you’re going to make the most of it. 

“I am not your personal guide,” he says, but what else is he going to guide? Souls? They’re not going anywhere, and neither is he, so the two of you and his hundreds of wailing, mournful spirits might as well make the most of it. 

It turns out that not all of your information is correct. There are discrepancies. He has no idea what a summoner’s rift is, or any recognition of any of the other characters who exist outside of the Isles, or any idea what’s happened over the last thousand years. 

“Isn’t it lonely?” you say, and he looks at you like you just asked him “Isn’t water wet?”, and so you decide that as long as you’re here, you will do your very best to be a _good guest._

“I am almost afraid to ask what that means,” he says, sighing and following you through the crumbling remains of yet another ancient building. 

\---

Anything you bring with you, he can’t touch. Books. Food. Your laptop. 

“Somehow, I doubt it is the same,” he says, gesturing between the glowing vial hanging from his necklace and your 2-litre plastic bottle of holy water, but you had your friend pray over it, so isn’t it close enough? Still, if you can’t bring anything physical, then you can at least bring stories. You write down as much information as you can about anything even remotely related to him, and as you tour the cursed, twisted land that is the Shadow Isles, you read your notes out loud. 

“A powerful, unliving wraith tortured by an obsessive longing for his centuries-dead queen,” you say, stretching your hand over your head to show him the size of Viego’s sword as you climb to the top of the broken bridge that once spanned the length of the small sea canal and watch the black mist swirl beneath you. 

“Thresh was among the first to be claimed by the Black Mist, but while others screamed in anguish at their fate, he reveled in it,” you recite, clutching your notes and peering from a distance at the ruins of the Library Keep that he won’t let you visit because _something something uncontrollable arcane magic._

You stop to peer at the few living plants still growing in the Isles. “Similar in appearance to an orange, but with the notable distinction that they have dangerous spikes-”

“And your first response is to _prod_ the spikes?” he says, pulling the branch of spiny citrus fruit away from your hand, and apparently completely forgetting that you are a dream ghost. 

You bring an orange from your world the next time. The two of you sit on the side of the rocky path and eat your respective fruits, and you don’t know when it happened, but the lulls in conversation have become surprisingly comfortable.

\---

You’ve visited the Isles for months now, and gotten so comfortable with the place and its lone inhabitant that you can practically find your way around by yourself; and so of course it is when you are by yourself that everything goes wrong. 

The first sign that something’s odd is the fact that you feel cold. You don’t feel cold. You don’t feel much at all in dreams, and you think to yourself _I should have brought a coat,_ without taking a moment to consider why you suddenly have the need for a coat at all.

Then you reach down, poking at the spiky shadow oranges like the idiot you are, and the only one who’s surprised when your finger starts bleeding is you. 

The mist is swirling around you in an instant, converging, suddenly thick and present and almost eager. You remember what you read about the spirits that make up this howling fog and how _enthusiastic_ they are to absorb fresh souls, and you start to worry. Just a little bit, though, because as far as you know, the mist can only take the dead, and you're still very much alive. What's it going to do, run you through with a sword? It can't even win a screaming contest, let alone do anything to _you-_

The fog grows, so thick you can barely see anything past your outstretched hand, and maybe you spoke a little too soon. 

You try to find your way back to the abbey, but you can hardly see the ground at your feet, and it’s enough work to keep yourself upright and headed in any direction at all. The wind is cold, ripping at your clothes, numbing your fingers, and if this weather is any indication, you may well freeze to death before anything else happens. 

The last thing you want to do is add moisture into the atmosphere, but you did go through the trouble of bringing it along, and now is the best time to try it out. You drag out the giant plastic bottle, pray your friend really is properly ordained, and fling the water in an arc in front of you.

The fog parts. It parts only slightly, and only for a second, but it parts. 

You _sprint_ forward, hurling the water in a straight arc again, always in front of you and always along the path. The mist roils, seething, screaming, but it parts to avoid the water (which is, if not _holy,_ then at least _holy-ish,_ and you’re sure as hell not complaining). The path continues, and you’re running full-tilt now, ignoring the creeping, numbing chill and the stitch in your side, because as long as you reach the abbey and your grave-digging friend, you can probably stay safe until you wake up-

You’re so busy trying to get to safety that you don’t notice- it could be anything. A rock? A pebble? A stray tree root? Whatever it is, you don’t notice it, and you trip, sending yourself flying across the air and-

“You _fool,”_ he says, and a large arm yanks you backwards. You open your mouth to argue, but then the mist clears, suddenly and abruptly, and you look down and see the twisted metal spike that was probably part of an old fence, sticking out of the ground and pointed right at your face. Well. 

\---

He insists on digging through the abbey storerooms for first aid, but not only has anything useful long since deteriorated, you are also not injured, and the few scrapes and bruises you got from running will surely not carry over into your waking world. 

You watch as he gives up looking, and instead soaks a bandage in water and wraps it around your skinned knee instead. Yes. Now you are not only bruised, you are bruised, cold and damp. But you appreciate the gesture. 

“Return,” he says, folding his arms and looming over you. “It is no longer safe for you here.”

It was never safe, and you don’t get to choose when you return, and even if you did, there’s no way you’re giving up your free tourist pass to Runeterra just because of some grabby-handed mist wraiths. You will bring an industrial strength vacuum cleaner next time, and _then_ they’ll see who the real danger is.

“Return,” he says again. He leans over you, and it’d be intimidating if you hadn’t just spent the better part of two months strong-arming him into some semblance of friendship. You poke his arm. It’s very warm. 

“I’ll bring more holy water next time,” you say, and he groans, but he still helps you off the table, and lets you hang on to his arm in case you have trouble walking, so you suppose it’s all good.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yorick is the sole survivor of an ancient monastery! He has a particularly strong ability to commune with the dead, and he tries to send their souls off in peace. Unfortunately his entire country is now under some black magic curse, and no one (including him) can pass on, so he spends his time now trying to figure out how to undo it. POOR DUDE
> 
> also apparently oranges still grow there, they just like got spiky add-ons to their skin, which is kind of cute? the Shadow Isles can still have a fruit-based import/export business i guess
> 
> \---
> 
> As usual, thank you so much for reading!! EVEN MORE SO for this super self-indulgent collection lmao


	4. Yorick | Epilogue (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time to get that sweet sweet E rating! feat. yorick of all people

The industrial-strength vacuum cleaner (and the portable battery) that you rented sucks up dust and dirt and debris perfectly well. It’s less effective on the mist filled with the tormented souls of the undead, which just kind of swirls around in an offended sort of way. You try to avoid eye contact with it. 

“No one can say you did not try,” he says, helping you lug your equipment back into the monastery while you stumble along behind him, still trying to get used to the idea of having a corporeal form.

It’s jarring to suddenly not be a ghost, but once you get used to it it’s an even more immersive experience. It’s invigorating to breathe in the icy wind, taste the sour-sweetness of the spiky fruit, feel the gritty, rusted iron of the door against your hand-

“How is it that your first actions are to attempt to freeze, poison, and infect yourself?” he says, plucking the fruit out of your hand, prying your other hand off the door and shoving it open with his shoulder instead. 

You suppose it wouldn’t do for the only company he’s had in a hundred years to die of exposure. You’ll bring a jacket next time.

\---

After some experimenting, you figure out that the same rules apply as before- anything you fall asleep holding, you can take with you. Kind of. If you hold multiple things, it’s luck of the draw, and one time you turn up in the monastery with nothing but a sandwich and some paracetamol. 

You give him both things, and when you wake up and they’re gone from your bed, you have to consider that this lucid dream is much less a dream and much more a proper, fully-functioning alternate world, which means. 

“Put the fruit down.”

“No,” you say, stuffing it in your shirt to join its five other spiny brethren, and you will gladly accept the puncture marks if it means you can smuggle things  _ across the border, _ as it were.

When you wake up, there’s only one fruit stuffed up your shirt, and it’s a perfectly normal orange. But it still counts. 

\---

You start bringing things with you, back and forth, like some kind of otherworldly drop-shipper. You can only bring one or two things at a time, and they always end up  _ modified _ to fit whichever world they're in, but slowly your room is filling with a random assortment of indecipherable books and papers, and the monastery is filling with a much more useful assortment of suddenly-medieval first aid supplies and non-perishables. You wonder for a moment if he minds the fact that you’re slowly emptying his abbey of its possessions, but he just shrugs.

“All things fade in the end,” he says. “Perhaps you could remember this place in my stead.”

You don’t like the way that sounds, or the way he said it, and you remember for the first time in a long, long while that he’s not actually here under his own volition. 

He walks off, presumably to check on his shambling zombie wraiths, and you sit there and think.

\---

“Let go.”

“No,” you say, grabbing his arm so hard you’re probably cutting off blood circulation. It’s a good thing he’s immortal.

He gives you a look, a look you can recognize by now as the standard mix of wariness, confusion and resignation that he always gets on his face whenever you’re in the nearby vicinity, but you’re doing this for his own good. If an orange can make it across worlds, why can’t he? 

“I’ve spent an eternity trying to escape this mist and failing,” he says, “But you are welcome to try.” 

\---

You wake up alone, but just because you failed the first time doesn’t mean you stop trying.

\---

You try. You really try. You attach yourself to him like a remora. You spend so much time with a vice grip on his arm that you’re pretty sure he’s going to have hand-shaped bruises sooner or later, and it’s a testament to how desperate he is for human company that he just lets you do it. And even after all these attempts, even after all this time, nothing you try works. He’s still stuck in limbo. And you still wake up alone. 

He walks around doing his gravekeeper-like duties, seemingly unbothered both by your plan’s consistent failure and the fact that you’re still hanging off him like a human-shaped deadweight. 

“I’m just happy to have company,” he says, shrugging again and shifting to make it easier to carry you around, and you resolve then and there to do whatever it takes to drag this poor man out of purgatory. 

When you next hear the faint ringing of your alarm, you fling yourself at him, locking your arms around his neck in a horrifyingly inaccurate choke-hold and trying to get as much physical contact as possible, because at this point you will try anything. Maybe superglue is something you should be considering bringing along the next time you sleep.

He stiffens, and you can tell he’s hesitantly trying to pry you off, but you just cling harder. The last thing you feel is a large hand on your waist, and then you wake up. Alone. God damn it. 

\---

He very wisely asks you to demonstrate what the superglue does, and when he sees it he grabs the tube and puts it up on the shelf far, far out of your reach. But again, failure doesn’t mean you stop trying. 

\---

All of your previous attempts have been spectacularly unsuccessful, and the superglue is now stored away with the fervent instruction that you _ do no _ t try to use it on him, so there’s nothing else to do but up the ante. 

“I have doubts about this,” he says, trying unsuccessfully to nudge you off of him, but you will drag him out of purgatory or you will die trying. 

It’s not common to see him flustered. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever seen it until now, but suddenly everything you do makes him stop walking or pause mid-sentence or grip his shovel just a bit tighter, and it’s kind of insulting considering the lengths you’re going to to get this plan to work.

_ “Your _ plan,” he says, once again patiently trying to unwrap your legs from around his waist. 

_ “Our _ plan,” you say, and cling on. 

\---

It still doesn't work, but you've tried so many times that after a while he just seems to accept it as status quo. He'll carry you around with a shrug and a "You're free to keep trying,", and you'd think you would need both hands to dig graves, but he seems to be doing just fine with one hand supporting your weight. 

"No graves to dig now," he says, and the wailing mist wails in agreement. You try to avoid eye contact with it. 

Anything past arm-hanging still makes him stop whatever he’s doing to try and pry you off. You’d think physical contact would be great for someone who’s spent the vast majority of his life alone, but maybe (absolutely) you’re being too obnoxious about it?

“I don’t,” he says, when you ask him if he minds it, but he’s prying you off at literally the exact same time, so which one is it? You latch your arms around his neck and for a moment so brief you almost miss it, he turns his head and presses his face against your hair- and then he’s pulling away and lifting you up and off like you weigh nothing, which to him is probably true. 

“I only wished for company,” he says, “but if you keep this up, I will end up wishing for more.”

You stare at him, because one, that’s kind of flattering _ , _ and two, more is okay. More is totally okay. Did he think that more is not okay- wait, fuck.

“You’re a monk,” you say, and  _ oh my god _ was he not even interested? Was he just trying to protect his sanity and continue his celibate life? Forget  _ flattering, _ you might literally be sinning just by sitting in close proximity to this man. It’s a good thing his Order or whatever is gone, because if your experience in this world so far is anything to go by, there is a horribly high chance you could get struck down just by looking at his d- it’s too late, you looked down at it, and you never noticed before but  _ wow  _ that’s impressive, maybe it grows with time, he’s had a lot of time-

“My order is long forgotten,” he says, and you really hope you didn’t say any of that out loud, “and I cannot quite recall how the people in my village used to go about courtship. But I doubt it is anything like this.”

Silence. You don’t know what the proper response to that is, and whenever you’re not sure about something, you do what you always do- barrel ahead anyway.

“So can I?” you ask, waving at his lap (his dick, waving at his dick, there’s really no nice way to put this), and there were probably a hundred better and more tactful ways to bring it up, like  _ are you celibate  _ or  _ is this appropriate _ or  _ would any of the things I am about to do put your already-accursed soul into further damnation, _ but your brain does not, and probably will never, function at a level high enough for you to pull that off. 

He pauses, an already taciturn person even more at a loss for words. “If--that’s what you want--?”

This is a two-person thing, and you’re still considering how to explain that to someone who has apparently accepted living the rest of his eternal life in complete seclusion when you feel him cautiously put one hand on your waist and just...leave it there. Like he’s testing the waters or something. You suddenly put  _ monk  _ and  _ hundreds of years of solitude _ together and realize that maybe the terrible luck this poor man has had his entire life has continued all the way up till this point where he’s going to have, of all people,  _ you  _ as his first partner. You should probably apologize before sucking his dick, or something. 

He makes an odd, strangled, choking sound; you may have enough self-control to keep most of your thoughts from spilling out, but apparently that last bit got through. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

“Sorry,” you say, and palm the bulge of his dick through his pants. 

The reaction is instantaneous-- he freezes, stiffening, and normally you’d give him a minute to acclimatize. You really would, but the appendage you’re feeling up is miles ahead of the rest of his body, and the only thing you really know how to do right now is forge on with the only half-assed plan you’ve got, which involves getting said appendage out and maybe introducing him to Step One of physical intimacy. 

“I--don’t think this is step one,” he says through clenched teeth, but it’s too late, and while he’s been busy being petrified you’ve already undone the heavy metal clasp of his pants. 

He’s hot and heavy and just about as large as you'd guessed, which, good for him, but there's not much you're going to be able to do without lube. This is why you should always plan ahead, but there's always room for improvisation. His eyes go wide when you slide down on the stone floor and start making yourself comfortable. 

"Get up," he says, reaching down. "You will hurt yourself," and what does he think you're going to do? Freeze to death on the ground? Seriously, you get almost-impaled  _ one _ time and this is what happens. Whatever else he's going to say or do ends up a garbled mess when you lean over and wrap your mouth around his dick-- you go maybe a bit too quickly, a bit too deep, but you pull back before you can start coughing, and you don’t think he noticed. He’s got other things to concentrate on. 

He’s staring down at you, a little wild-eyed, hands clenching so hard you worry he might actually crack the wooden bench. You spare a thought towards the idea that you may have moved a teeny tiny bit too fast, but he’s spent literally hundreds of years alone. Aren’t you just making up for lost time? 

You lean forward again, seeing if you can brute-force your gag reflex into submission. The first attempt has you choking, and he snaps back to himself, pulling you off and trying to lift you up onto the bench with him. You slap his hands away and try again, and this time you manage to get most of him without going into a coughing fit. His hands jerk back to his sides, and he looks so completely out of his depth that you grab one hand and guide it to your head, trying to give him something to anchor himself with. 

His fingers tangle in your hair for just a second before sliding down to brush against your cheek, cupping your face as if to confirm once again that you’re actually here and not just a strange fever dream. You know the feeling. Fortunately (unfortunately) for him, you’re real, you’re here, and you’re doing this whether he fully believes it’s happening or not. 

“I--” he says, curling his fingers into your hair again, and you recognize the urgent tugging. You ignore it and redouble your efforts, using your hand to stroke the last part of him that you can’t fit in your mouth. He desperately fists his hand in your hair and  _ pulls,  _ but you stay where you are by sheer determination, and his eyes fall closed, jaw clenched and limbs tense and shaking as you stroke him through it. 

He hauls you to your feet the moment he can get his body to work again, picking you up and setting you firmly on the bench beside him so he can do his best to clean you up. 

“This was--it was not what I had in mind,” he says, pressing a cloth against your cheek, and okay, but it was good, wasn’t it? In fact, judging by his reaction and the fact that he still hasn’t caught his breath, it was more than good, so what brilliant idea did  _ he _ have in mind when he said  _ more? _

He leans over, brushing his lips against your forehead, and you have only a second to let the fact that kissing usually comes before fellatio sink into your empty brain before the sharp, annoying ring of your alarm sounds in the background, getting louder and louder with each passing moment. 

“Next time,” you say, and he clutches your hand and gives you a small, awkward smile, and then you’re awake. 

You’re awake, and you’re alone again, and sure. So far your plan hasn’t worked. But you promised him a  _ next time, _ and like you’ve always said. Failure doesn’t mean you stop trying.

  
  


\---

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM INTO HIM OKAY HE SEEMS LIKE A REALLY NICE DUDE
> 
> if you're reading, thank you so much for joining me on my descent into complete self-indulgence, your presence is AMAZING and unexpected akjsfhkjdsg


	5. Yorick | Epilogue 2 (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if i can write 2 epilogues for jhin i can sure as hell write 2 epilogues for yorick

You decide to start over again, which is to say you just grab him by his worn-out overcoat and haul him over the moment you next find yourself in the Shadow Isles. You may have made a mistake the last time, so what better time to rectify it than right now?

His hands come up to support your weight, and it’s only out of pure habit that he doesn’t drop you when you yank him in for a kiss. 

“Mph,” he says, which you’re sure meant something very important, but you’re too busy trying to get him to open his mouth so you can crawl down his thr-- it has just occurred to you that rushing things might not be the best way to go. 

“Sorry,” you say, but judging by his expression and the way his fingers press nervously into your skin, that word still has “comes right before sudden and unexpected sexual content” connotations, so maybe just going back to kissing is the right move after all.

To your relief, he leans into it, seemingly content to follow your lead. Your plan hinges on physical contact, or at least contact in general, and what better way to get it than seduction? It’s not even difficult to do, considering you’re the only other living human around for miles. 

“I’m tired, ancient, and only barely alive,” he says, lifting you up to hold you a little closer. “You do not need to seduce me.” 

So he says, but he still takes whatever you give him and never, ever makes a move to push you away, and you’re _sure_ it’s only a matter of time before you can watch your plan finally come to completion. 

\---

Your plan is not coming to completion. 

It’s been another month, and you have spent it stuck as close to him as physically possible without actually cutting him open and wearing him like a coat. He bears it all with the same stoic acceptance as before, save only for the fact that now he doesn’t flinch or freeze or stop whatever he’s doing when you lean in for a kiss.

“All things take time,” he says, shifting to accommodate your weight as he patrols the graveyard. _He_ may have time, but _you_ are still a plain old boring human, and you’d like to see him safe and sound in your own world within the next hundred years. 

He sighs, sensing your frustration, and pausing to look over a faded tombstone. “Worry only shortens life. Why concern yourself so much over a gravedigger with nothing to offer?” 

You lean over and bite down on the skin at his throat for asking such a stupid question. You can hear the sharp intake of breath, and you scrape your teeth over, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Because I like you,” you say, and shove him against the bulky gravestone to show him exactly how much. 

\---

He doesn’t seem to quite comprehend the fact that “I like you” is a thing. Every so often you’ll catch him looking at you like he’s trying very, very hard to memorize your face, as if one day you’re just going to decide not to come back and he’s never going to see you again-- and you decide that if physical contact isn’t working for your plan, maybe emotional contact will. 

He gives you an odd look when you ask him to tell you about his life. 

“Do you not already know it?” he says, but you only know the vague parts that someone else chose to write about, and that’s nothing compared to hearing it from the person themselves. 

He has never spoken much, but you prod and poke and ask enough questions to keep him talking for hours as he goes about his work. He tells you about growing up in his village, or what little he can remember, about how being able to commune with the dead was, as expected, a somewhat unwelcome talent. He tells you about the monastery, and how even there he could never really find his place. He tells you about the day his country was corrupted by the pitch black mist, and how somehow he ended up being the only living thing left, and now he can't even sleep, let alone dream like you do. 

“Enough,” he says, sitting heavily on the wooden bench and leaning his shovel against the wall. “It hurts to remember what is long gone.”

You watch as his hand reaches out, almost subconsciously, to check if you’re still hanging off his arm, and decide not to mention the fact that he seems to be trying very hard to remember you. 

\---

“I like you,” you say, clinging onto one arm like always. 

“I like you,” you say, and watch as he accidentally stabs his shovel too hard into the ground. 

“I like you,” you say, cornering him in the monastery supply room and crowding him up against the lopsided wooden shelves.

“You have strange taste,” he mutters, pulling you to one side in case anything falls from the ledges, but that is pedantic and a poor attempt at avoiding the topic. You will repeat it as much and as often as you have to to get it through his thick, stubborn head. 

You say it over and over and over again like a broken record player, because maybe no one has ever bothered to say it before, and so you will make up for that by saying it as many times as it takes. He’s as imperturbable as ever, as if this is just the latest questionable turn in your latest questionable plan, but in this, like in all things questionable, you will not be deterred. 

“I like you,” you say, shoving yourself in between him and the large wooden table that he’s sorting his first-aid supplies on, secure in the knowledge that he will tolerate literally any annoying thing you choose to do. “I like you, I like you, I like you, I-”

He grabs you and yanks you up onto the table, and you think for just a second about how you were maybe just a _bit too annoying,_ and one second more about what an immortal controller of the undead could do when he’s pissed off. 

“Sorr-” you say, but it’s hard to talk when someone else is doing their best to stop you from doing just that. With their mouth. No wonder all he said was _mph._

His hands never move from your sides, holding you firmly in place like he’s worried you’re just going to casually hop off the table and right out of the Shadow Isles. The kiss is just like everything else he does, slow and unhurried and with a sense of stubborn purpose, and when you wrap your arms around his neck he mouths tentatively at the edge of your bottom lip, an awkward imitation of that first time you tried to literally stick your tongue down his throat. He’s never initiated anything before, and if this is what _I like you_ gets you, you will climb up to the crumbling roof of this dilapidated building and scream it louder than the wailing mist that surrounds this cursed place.

“Why do your thoughts always lead you towards senseless danger?” he says, as if he can read your mind, and you would have a reply ready, something about this whole land being senseless danger personified, but his breath on your neck is very distracting. You suppose you can put other so-called dangerous activities out of your mind, because this seems far, far more enjoyable. 

\---

He has patience and an iron will to rival the gods themselves, and never has it been so infuriatingly obvious.

“It’s the next step,” you say, yanking at his coat. He just looks at himself, and down at how he’s still holding you up with just one arm, and gives you a moment for the size difference to really sink in before speaking.

“No,” he says, and you damn his hundreds of years of experience with voluntary celibacy straight to hell. 

Nothing you say or do works. Mentioning the plan or anything related to it just gets you a shrug, trying to corner him around the monastery gets you picked up and set down on one side, launching yourself at him ends up with him just carrying you around in one arm like he’s used to it (and it’s only now that you start to regret all that clinging). 

“Come on,” you say, verging on desperation and considering if bringing porn magazines over would end up with them being too altered to fit this world to be of any use. 

He just picks you up again like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be able to do, and you give up, grabbing his coat and rambling about how _you have to move past making out sometime_ and that _you have already seen his dick, it’s not going to kill you_ and also _even if it does kill you he can rest assured you died happy._

You’re still rambling, and you have many more completely valid and logical arguments to make, but you’re suddenly set down on the table and just as suddenly he’s very, very close, leaning over and looking at you. 

You don’t know what to do or say, so you just blink at him for a second before opening your mouth to say “I like y-”

He just sighs, and leans his head on your shoulder. 

“Teach me, then,” he says, and you try not to be too obvious in your celebrations. Teach him? _Easy._

\---

You have always been one to jump the gun, count your chickens before they hatch, celebrate your victories a little too early. 

“Like this?” he says, two thick, callused fingers rubbing inside you and finding just the right spot with horrible, practised ease. He goddamn knows it’s _like this,_ he found that out days ago, and you regret telling a man with patience as vast and deep as the _fucking ocean_ that you would _teach him._

It’s been two weeks since you offered, and for those two weeks you’ve not been able to get anywhere near his dick before he flips you onto the nearest surface and says something like “There are still many steps left,” or “Did you not promise to teach me,” or “We should go over that one more time,” and spends the next few hours making sure you’re in no condition for the main event, and the whole reason why there is a _fore_ in foreplay is because there is an _after_ and you would think someone who’s lived as long as he had would have known this.

“I can only hope you will forgive me,” he says, responding to your babbling like it’s the obvious thing to do, you look at the smile on his face and try to figure out when exactly he learnt about _sass._

“You teach me a great many things,” he says, hooking one arm under your knee to change the angle, and you don’t really think about anything much after that. 

\---

If this keeps up, you will never reach actual sex _or_ claw back your pride, and you value those two things a great deal. 

“What are you thinking of?” he says, kissing your forehead, the gentle action in stark contrast to what his hands are doing. He adds a second finger, the other hand holding your legs apart, pressing in so very slowly, and you have to do something _now_ or he’ll have the upper hand for the rest of your life. 

“Wait,” you say, clutching at his arm, and he stops immediately to check if everything’s alright. You move as fast as you can, pushing yourself up and off the table, but you never had good balance at the best of times, and you just end up sprawled across his lap, which-- actually might not be such a bad thing. Hello there. Long time no see. 

He groans when you grind down on him, one arm winding around your waist to support your weight out of habit. You reach down instead, because it suddenly seems very unfair that he still has all his clothes on, and for a second he freezes just like he did the first time and you might be able to press your advantage after all--

“You are far too eager to hurt yourself,” he says, snapping back to himself with horrifying speed and moving to lift you back up. You fling your arms around his neck and hang on, burying your face in his neck, and when his hands pause and come to rest on your back instead, you know you’ve won. He’s never going to have to heart to pull you off him. 

You tilt your head and close your mouth over where you can feel his pulse, biting down and feeling it quicken under your tongue. You can feel him hold himself very still, even when you grind down-- and it feels unbearably hard, even to you, you can only imagine what a pointlessly large amount of self-control it’s taking for him not to move with you. 

“It will-” he says, in one last attempt to convince you, but you just shove your hand down and start yanking at his belt buckle, because _it will be fine._ It will be _more_ than fine, judging by how fucking easy it was for him to pick up _literally everything you try to teach him,_ and you hate to say it, but if that thing could (mostly) fit in your mouth, it should have absolutely no problem fitting anywhere else, and maybe he’s been getting a little too big-headed if he really thinks it’s going to be that much of a problem.

There’s an odd, low vibration, and for a second you panic and wonder if the Shadow Isles are plagued by earthquakes along with everything else until you realize he’s laughing. 

“How fortunate I am to have met someone who speaks such gratifying words,” he says, and you realize that you said that last part out loud. Again. But he laughed, and you will humiliate yourself in a hundred different ways if it will make him laugh again, so whatever. 

You’re too busy replaying the sound again and again in your head, and you don’t notice him moving until he’s lifted you up and almost set you back down on the table. 

“No,” you say, clinging on like the world’s biggest leech, and he tries to say something about _it will be difficult otherwise,_ but as usual you’re going straight for the belt instead of listening. You have very little space to work with (and it is your own fault), but soon enough you’ve yanked the buckle aside and it’s very, very nice to feel warm skin underneath your hand again. 

His grip stutters as you drag your hand up and down its length, and you wonder if doing all this while seated on _not the sturdiest_ of benches is the best idea, but you’re not taking the risk of separating yourselves long enough to change places. This will have to do. You drop your legs on either side of his, your knees hitting the cold, solid wood, aligning yourself and sinking down before he can voice any more protest. 

Okay. Fine. It might have been a bit of a stretch to try and take it all at once, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to let him notice that-- actually, judging by the way he’s not breathing and how he’s clutching you hard enough to cut off blood circulation, he probably wouldn’t notice if the black mist itself came down, shaped itself into human form and started pole-dancing in the middle of the room. 

You rest your head against the crook of his shoulder and catch your breath, giving yourself a little time to acclimatize to the stretch. It doesn’t take too long, the freaking _hours of goddamn foreplay_ saw to that, and soon enough you’re good to go. 

He takes a shaky breath, finally remembering to breathe as you start moving. You try to set a pace you can follow, something you can keep up for a while, but your legs were already shaky and the slow dragging friction is taking up more brain cells than you have to spare, and you go off-kilter, knocking your leg against the edge of the bench. 

"You-" his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you back up, but if he tries to stop now you will bring along a swimming pool's worth of holy water next time and drown him in it. 

"Let me," he says, and you have a moment of relief before he hooks his hands under your legs, practically folding you in half, and you realize you didn't actually teach him about this part and _fuck fuck fuck that's so deep._

He lifts you up and down, following the same rhythm you set before, and you just wrap your arms around his neck and hang on, hoping to god he doesn't drop you because you're not even touching the bench anymore. He's holding you up just with his strength alone, and it is both impressive and slightly intimidating--but you can't really think much on it when he's going so fucking deep you can hardly feel anything but the burning ache of it, the heat winding its way up your spine, and you bite down on the nearest patch of skin available just to anchor yourself to something that isn't his goddamn dick. No matter how much you like it. 

He's panting, harsh jagged breaths of air, hands gripping your legs so hard you'd definitely get bruises if those carried over to your own world, and it's obvious neither of you are going to last very long at all. You bite down again, wordlessly urging _faster,_ and he groans and slams up into you, self control crumbling. You just let him, let the frantic pace drag you closer and closer to the edge until you come, clutching at his coat and muffling your cry into his neck. 

You feel his pace falter, and he thrusts up one last time, curling over you, shaking. You stay where you are, ignoring your screaming muscles straining against the ridiculous position, and drag him in for one more kiss. 

\---

You don't remember when you fell asleep, but apparently you did, because when you open your eyes again you're back in your own room, in your own world, on your own, and it's so frustrating you could scream. It takes a second before you process the dull ache in your limbs, and when you look down you see- apparently bruises can get carried across worlds just fine. 10/10, god willing, you're going to go straight back there tonight and hopefully he'll be willing to give you a brand new set. 

You roll out of bed, and you didn't account for fatigue, because your legs just give way and you're bracing for the _thump_ onto the bedroom floor. You squeeze your eyes closed and brace, but you don't hit the floor. Or you _did_ hit the floor, but the floor is weirdly shaped and kind of warm and--

"It seems I can dream after all," he says, and you fling your arms around his neck and decide that you will never let go. 

\---

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3.2k words and my only regret is that i couldnt cram even more explicit content in there
> 
> \---
> 
> as usual holy shit thank you if you're reading this!! THANK YOU HAHA

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on Twitter @orangecccrush!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unsure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775444) by [Riehlla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riehlla/pseuds/Riehlla)




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